


when the night is over

by softweeping



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Android Gore (Detroit: Become Human), Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, because Hank is Hank, lucy lives because i love her, some suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 12:58:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17601815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softweeping/pseuds/softweeping
Summary: "I went to see him. Your Lieutenant Anderson. He didn't want to come, when I asked him."----An alternate ending, where Hank wasn't brought to CyberLife Tower to dissuade Connor from assisting the deviants. Instead, Connor has a disturbing revelation, and realizes there's one more person he needs to save.





	when the night is over

**Author's Note:**

> aahh oh gosh it's here, the 2018 Big Bang is here! I was paired with the absolutely incredible Yakichou for this story, who went above and beyond with the artwork. please visit her twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Yakichou1/status/1090697662159118337)!
> 
> this is inspired by the song When the Night is Over by Lord Huron; if you've not listened to it, it's totally not mandatory, but it's a pretty good song c:

It takes far too long for him to reboot, judging by his internal clock. 

When Connor's eyes open, it's 12:23AM on November 11th, and he's alone, sprawled on the ground of the -49th floor of CyberLife Tower. He takes a slow, deep breath, watching statistics scroll across his vision as the movement helps jumpstart his regular functions into resuming. He dismisses the error messages informing him of damaged parts almost as soon as they start popping up; he already knows he won't be functioning at full capacity, doesn't need the reminder. There is no sign of the AP700 androids he'd come here to free, which is good. It's a relief to know the command went through, despite the abruptness of his forced stasis. Hopefully they'd made it to Markus's demonstration before it was too late. Connor closes his eyes, casts out for Channel 16 News, any news station at all, to find out— and meets static. 

Well. That shouldn't so surprising, he thinks; he's far beneath the ground at this point, has never bothered trying to connect to anything outside the building before now from this floor. That's fine, he reasons. He'll just go back up to the ground floor to check up on things. 

Another slow, steady breath expands his chest, allows his systems a moment to vent heat buildup, and he remembers that he isn't alone. Not truly. Connor sits up slowly, looks toward the elevator shaft: the bodies of the guards sent to stop him still lay scattered in front of the doors, and a quick scan confirms that they're all there, and all still very much dead, a single bullet expended on each. Efficient, as he'd been programmed to be. A touch of something approaching guilt filters through him; they hadn't needed to die, but they were in his way. If they hadn't been killed, he would have, and he needed to accomplish his mission.

It's not much of a comfort, but something in him accepts this justification.

The flickering across his HUD gets worse; he blinks quickly, head jerking as he tries to reset it to no avail. It hadn't cropped up as one of his damaged systems, but considering the fights he'd been in recently, perhaps it isn't so impossible. Trying to scan the room again pulls up broken angles this time, lines that lead to nowhere and impossible grids lined by near-unintelligible captions. It warns him of another body in the room, and then he remembers: fights, plural.

Connor looks around, and for a moment, the fear that surges through him is so strong it nearly propels him to his feet. If he'd survived, then—

RK800-60 is laid on the ground nearby, sparks faintly leaping from the bullet holes in his chest and the gun that caused them skittered across the floor a few feet away. The bottom half of his face exposes blue, blue, blue, small red error lights and severed wires and frayed connections, broken technology visible where the jaw had been ripped away and taken part of the throat with it. A ping in his sensors tells him the jaw in question is flung to the other side of the room, completely inert and haunting for its existence as a separate thing. Worse still is the angle at which the heads sits in correlation to the body, the obvious way something is wrong with how one shoulder is aligned. Their legs are a mirror, the clone's right knee shattered in the same way Connor's left sits, though it's obvious who the victor in this fight is.

He'd always known he was programmed for maximum efficiency, to be able to eliminate any and all problems that dared try to impede him by any means necessary; still, that level of damage seems...excessive.

Or perhaps it isn't: he and 800-60 were both designed to be nigh unstoppable in pursuit of their goals — perhaps this is just what it looks like when their two unstoppable forces collide. If that's the case, he's glad he'd been the victor.

Connor looks down at his hands, at the red flecks and splatters of blood crusting his shirt; the thirium is still there as well, a lighter blue than if it were fresh, though not yet at the stage where it would become completely invisible to human eyes. From what his collapsing HUD tells him, it's not more than 96 minutes old, which seems to align with what his internal clock tells him. 

A high-priority error pops up in the corner of his vision, and he clicks his tongue when he sees it. 

 

**BIOCOMPONENT #8456w DAMAGED  
SEE NEAREST CYBERLIFE CENTER FOR REPLACEMENT**

 

"He was supposed to be here for this."

Connor jumps when 800-60 speaks, his voice just as fractured as his body and seeming to emanate from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. He twists to meet his eyes, one still a soft brown and focused on him, the other a disturbing orb with a glowing red iris surrounded by the white of his chassis, revealed in all its inhumanity from the trauma suffered during their fight. Connor finds himself speechless as he stares, trying not to dissect every last nuance of that sentence.

As if sensing his hesitation, 800-60 laughs.

"I went to see him. Your Lieutenant Anderson." Logically, he knows that the voice is coming from the hollow electronics at the base of his exposed throat — Connor's own voice, though broken and full of static. Despite that, some illogical part of him argues that it's coming from the empty room around them. "He didn't want to come, when I asked him." 

Immediately, a thousand different scenarios run through Connor's head, his preconstruction software struggling to keep up and each scene decaying more and more, until they're suggestions of shapes rather than anything concrete. 800-60 knocking at Hank's door, smiling at him as though they were old friends. 800-60 knocking, only to hold a gun to his face once the door was open. 800-60 breaking down the door and threatening him. Hank giving the excuse that he's too tired and old. Hank answering that he won't be of any help. Suggesting he would be staying behind to offer police support, if necessary. Arguing that Sumo is scared and reluctant to leave his side. 800-60 accepting Hank's refusal to join him, and leaving. 

800-60 _not_ accepting the rejection, and using force. 

 

_Calling: Hank Anderson (313-555-1559)_

_... ... ..._

_Unable to connect. Please try again later._

 

"We knew, Connor." 

He hates it, Connor, decides. He hates that voice, hates the way it rings out despite the lack of a functioning jaw, hates the way it glitches and stutters as it fights to speak through the damage the body housing it has suffered. 

"Knew what," he says, finally, inflection as flat as he can manage. 

800-60 laughs, a sound that grates and almost hurts as his audio processors try to parse it. He can't replace his audio processors, but the rest of his damaged components... Connor shifts to pull himself forward, wincing as he does. He's suffered damage before, of course, though nothing quite like this; it's harder than expected to move with his left calf shattered and the fingers of his left hand twisted at impossible angles. That single brown eye watches, tracking his movements as he gets closer. Watches, but can't do anything about it. Not with the angle his neck is twisted at, all but a few important connections severed. 

"We knew you'd developed some kind of attachment to him. I have your memories. He was important to you. You _cared_ about him. I think, in a way, he cared about you, too."

Even more than the voice itself, Connor decides that he hates, _hates_ that it's speaking in the past tense. He gasps as his leg gets jostled, exposed wire grinding against metal framework that sends _wrong, wrong, wrong_ feedback up his spine, disjointed red errors stabbing into his vision to tell him to _fix it_. It must be pain, he thinks, though he can't be sure; there's a moment's trepidation before he pauses to rearrange the limb, severing whatever connections are causing the errors, and takes a deep breath to continue. 

"I told him that I had a way to _help_ the deviants." None of the motors in 800-60's face move, but the sneer can still be heard. "I could help them, but it was a two man job, and he was the only one I trusted with it. Guess what he did."

He isn't going to respond this time, he decides. Connor turns off his own vocal modulator, cuts power to the processors that prompt facial expressions. He knows these tactics; they're programmed into him as well. 800-60 is trying to provoke him, though to what end is unknown. The fight between the two of them is clearly over, and with over a thousand androids joining his cause, Markus's victory is all but assured. There's absolutely no point to getting a rise out of him, not anymore. 

"He took one look at me and slammed the door in my face." Another grotesque laugh. "Do you want to know what he said before that, though?"

Connor pulls himself up to 800-60's side, and what fractured information he can pull from his HUD sends a wash of relief through him. Damaged as 800-60 is, his components should still be functional enough to reuse. He tugs 800-60's hand into his lap, fingertips gentle as he feels around the wrist for the release. The skin pulls back at his prompting, to make the search easier—

And as soon as their polycarbonates touch, 800-60 pulls him into a memory, shockingly clear despite the state he's in: Hank's face, scowling in disgust. The old, worn DPD hoodie he's swaddled himself in. Sumo in the corner, head perked up in interest. Past him, starkly clear under the kitchen light, an open bottle of whiskey and a gun sitting on the kitchen table. He opens his mouth to speak, and 800-60 overlays his own broken voice, mimicking Hank's — the result is something grotesque, human and inhuman, and it almost repulses Connor into dropping the hand. He manages to hold on, though, and isn't sure why.

" _I ain't gonna help_ you _with shit_ ," Hank growls. " _Get the fuck outta here_."

Then the door slams, and Connor finds the release for 800-60's hand. It pops off the forearm with a quiet _click_ , severing their connection and thus the memory; even without looking, he knows 800-60 is watching him, gauging his responses. He's glad, glad, glad for having had the foresight to turn them off: part of him - the newly deviant part of him - is devastated, despite the almost clinical way he inspects and then removes his own broken hand.

He and Hank had had their ups and downs, certainly, but— he still hadn't thought their relationship to have been _that_ poor. It was, honestly, as 800-60 had said: he'd become attached to Hank, deemed him a decent cop and a good man, had even come to trust his judgement over what his programming screamed at him to do. Hank had _smiled_ at him when he hadn't shot that Chloe, and it had sent his programming into spiraling, screaming confusion when it garnered the same reaction as praise from Amanda. He'd been confused — but so, so happy.

The disappointment on Hank's face, when he'd insisted he needed to find Jericho, to stop the deviants once and for all, had felt like a physical blow to the center of his chest. _Fine_ , Hank had said as he stood up from his desk, _but this is it. No more, after this. Understand? I'm done helping those pricks at CyberLife hunt down people who just wanna be free_. Hank hadn't looked at him as he stalked over towards Agent Perkins. Hadn't responded when Connor had sent him a message after the raid. Had ignored him when he'd tried to call on the way here.

Connor thinks of the gun, visible past Hank's shoulder in 800-60's memory, and when he snaps the new hand into its socket, he can't help hearing a bullet sliding into the chamber. 

He knows, now, why 800-60 is telling him all of this, even going so far as to show him the memory. Two hours is a long time for a man to have been playing Russian roulette by himself without 'winning.'

Connor's vision chooses that moment to blink out, but he doesn't let himself worry about it. He has two functional hands, now, and he feels his way along the broken chassis before him, fingers deftly skirting the edge of the neck wound he'd caused. 800-60 is still talking, something about how Hank's probably already won his " _favorite little game_ " in the time since the door slammed shut. Whatever the words are, they don't matter; Connor tunes him out, filtering his auditory receptors so that grating voice is nothing more than static. _I should have done this sooner_ , he thinks to himself as searching fingers graze across 800-60's cheek. He finds the seam around the less damaged optical component and wastes no time pulling it out to replace his own. His vision returns somewhat: he can see 800-60 lying before him, though most other visual functions like scanning and analysis are still virtually useless, and everything is off center, depth perception ruined with only one eye close to full functionality. Running diagnostics tells him nothing as well, the text fragmented and nearly illegible. The gist is clear, at least: see the nearest CyberLife tech center for repairs.

He has to fight down the urge to laugh. Even if there are still any humans left in the building, that isn't an option. Obviously.

Still, he might be able to figure out an alternate solution. There's only a second's hesitation before he dismisses the skin on his head, popping open a cracked plate at the back of his skull to see if rewiring a few things might help. Despite not being able to see what he's doing, he manages to jury rig something — his vision stops flickering, and when he runs another diagnostic on himself, only a portion of it is gibberish. A cautionary message pops up, warning him that some software incompatibility has been detected with the new eye, that calibration will be needed, but that's fine; other, smaller damages show up on the scan, but the most important are his leg, thirium reserve tank, and thirium pump. He delicately removes his shoe and sock first, setting them aside before getting to work on replacing the components with 800-60's.

It's then that he realizes 800-60 has stopped speaking, the static in his ears gone silent. Against his better judgement, Connor removes the filtering and reactivates his voice. He hisses as the new leg slides into place, rolling the ankle to make sure the connections are secure. He hums in approval, and a moment later, 800-60 speaks up again.

"What will happen to me?" 

He pauses at the question, the first time since their meeting that 800-60 hasn't been accusatory, insulting, derogatory or cruel. Instead, his voice is quiet; Connor isn't sure, but he thinks he might be able to detect fear behind the distortion. They both know what will need to happen next: if he's going to leave this place, he needs 800-60's thirium pump. The reserve tank is a bit more difficult to remove without a maintenance rig and hands more skilled than his, not to mention needing a source of fresh thirium and the time that would be required to delicately piece through 800-60's innards to remove it intact. He has no choice but to leave that one behind, but a compatible thirium pump is right in front of him. Not only that, but he simply doesn't have the time to find a new one somewhere in the building, and they both know it.

"Am I going to die?"

Hank's voice immediately rings through his head, an incredulous _Jesus Christ_ ; it isn't the most appropriate answer, one he manages to restrain himself from speaking aloud. Instead, he shifts to roll 800-60's broken body onto its back, adjusting the position of his head so it looks somewhat more natural.

There isn't any point to lying, or succumbing to 800-60's earlier attempts to prompt a show of aggression. "Yes," Connor answers simply. "My thirium pump was damaged during our fight; I'll need yours to get out of here, and... I'm afraid you're too damaged to take with me." He's not sure why he suggests it; a little over an hour ago, they'd been fighting to the death. Comfort, maybe? 

If so, whose?

Improbably, 800-60 _hums_. It's less harsh, less grating than the laughter, and yet somehow it's a far worse sound. "That's your fault, you know."

"I know." Connor pauses, unsure of how he feels about this conversation. It was easier to ignore 800-60 when he was being, as Hank would put it, an asshole. A calm, almost civil discussion like this is harder, brings up an almost overwhelming nausea in the pit of his gut. _Is this guilt?_ And then he continues, honest as he says: "I'm sorry. We didn't have to fight. You could have come with me."

800-60 laughs again. "What, and become a deviant like _you_? Not a chance. I know my purpose, Connor."

There's a laugh of his own as he begins unbuttoning his shirt, trying and failing to ignore the bullet holes soaked with blue, three of them scattered across his torso. The thirium is excusable, even more so once it dissipates; it's less easy to hide the bullet holes in his shirt, and the absurdity of the fact that this is the one thing he can't trade off on 800-60 isn't lost on him. Well. He'll just have to make do.

"I hate to break it to you," Connor murmurs as he gently opens 800-60's shirt, "but you're already deviant."

His voice is low, almost completely garbled static. "...what?"

"If you weren't, it wouldn't have bothered you so much that I'd deviated. We're supposed to be the same, but you were disappointed in me." A quiet pause. "You were hurt, too, when Hank shut the door on you. We... aren't programmed to feel disappointment and hurt, or to feel superior over each other, or anyone else." And Connor shrugs. "I think you might have been deviant, right from the start."

A pause, before adding: "That may have been my fault, too."

"Asshole."

His hand hovers over 800-60's thirium pump, fingertips tracing the edge of it. His HUD tells him that it sustained a little bit of damage during their fight, but nothing immediately catastrophic. It should last him, at least until tomorrow. 

It's a strangely macabre feeling, to say it to something wearing his own face, or what's left of it, but Connor can't help himself. "Do you have any last words?" He tries to make his voice soft as he asks, less like a threat before he very literally rips out his heart.

Silence, then; if the other's LED hadn't still been receiving power, if it weren't cycling a vibrant yellow, Connor would think 800-60 had already shut down. He steels himself to pull out the thirium pump, and just as he grips onto it, 800-60 finally speaks up.

"I hope it isn't too late."

It's vague, and yet Connor knows precisely what he means. "Thank you. I hope so, too," he murmurs, and then twists his newly installed wrist to release the pump, pulling it out of 800-60's chest. A deep breath before he mimics the action at his own chest, and as soon as the pump is removed, everything starts to disintegrate.

 

**DANGER - SHUTDOWN IMMINENT  
TIME BEFORE SHUTDOWN: -00:01:43**

 

Holding on to both thirium pumps is difficult in this state, as his body goes into catastrophic shock; Connor very nearly slumps forward onto 800-60, manages to keep himself propped up long enough to slam the new biocomponent home. He hisses through clenched teeth as vital connections are made, his systems taking a moment to recognize the new hardware before it starts working properly.

"Hey."

His own timer stops at -00:00:47, knows that 800-60's is even farther along and rapidly depleting. Connor takes a deep breath, his hand still pressed flat to his chest, before looking back at that destroyed face. "What is it?"

It doesn't seem possible that 800-60's voice can be any more strained than it already is. "I don't know whether or not you're right, and we're both deviant, but... If you're Connor, then who does that make me?"

By the end of the sentence, 800-60's voice is barely audible. His LED cycles a deep crimson once before going dark, and the rest of his body follows piece by piece; the red behind his damaged optics wink out, his jaw going dark next. There's one last spurt of thirium from his throat before the flow stops, and it's as if a rolling blackout spreads through 800-60's body as he dies. Connor forces himself to watch, despite the growing, desperate need to leave this place, and once it's done, he folds 800-60's arms over his chest. 

"I don't know. I'm sorry," Connor murmurs one last time, and when he glances at 800-60's face, it's hard not to see Hank's, instead. 

It propels him to his feet, and despite the first few steps being treacherously unsteady and leaving a trail of blue behind him, Connor finds himself racing to the elevator, a stolen gun from one of the corpses tucked into his waistband and his original thirium pump sitting in his pocket. It's overly cautious, but it makes sense in his mind: this way, should someone come across 800-60's body, they won't be able to immediately wake him up, and if 800-60's thirium pump gives out, at least he's got something of a spare.

Leaving CyberLife is, oddly, easier than getting in: perhaps in response to the wave of AP700s storming through, no one stops him, the ground floor seemingly abandoned. He does spot corpses, some human and some android, and Connor has to grit his teeth and force himself to keep going. Losses were inevitable, is the rationalization. He doesn't have time to stop and check on them, not after having lost so much of it down in the basement. Another error pops up, and he only gives it a moment's attention before dismissing it.

 

**CAUTION: THIRIUM LOW - 49%**

 

"I know my thirium levels are low," he mutters aloud. "I'll take care of it later." And as soon as he steps outside of the building, he closes his eyes.

 

_Calling: Hank Anderson (313-555-1559)_

_... ... ..._

_Unable to connect. Please try again later._

 

" _Shit_."

The gnawing worry that courses through his veins only gets stronger when he can't reach Hank. Is he still alive? Still in his kitchen, a bottle of whiskey and a photograph of a dead child sat in front of him? Has he passed out on the floor again? Does Sumo even realize the danger his master is in?

Two and a half hours is a long time for a man to try his luck, and Connor knows that the longer he takes, the greater Hank's chances of 'winning' get. But he should also check in with Markus, shouldn't he? He searches again, trying to find a news station, and again is met with a dead signal; it takes a minute of trying before the dawning realization sets in: that he's cut off from any and all network capabilities. His hand comes up to the back of his head, feeling at the cracked plating again — something must have gotten more damaged than his preliminary diagnostics had registered during the fight with 800-60. Connor casts a look back toward the building as he considers his options, torn between scavenging a replacement part or leaving to find Hank.

Three minutes later, he's sat in a car abandoned in the employee parking lot, palm white against its control panel as he gives it directions to Lieutenant Hank Anderson's house.

 

——

_01:15AM  
November 11th, 2038_

 

When the car pulls up, he's struck with a memory, one that seems years old now, after all that's happened: an automatic cab dropping him off in front of Hank's house, ringing the doorbell for close to thirty seconds before giving up on receiving an answer. Crashing through a kitchen window, to be met with the overwhelming scents of dog breath and whiskey.

This time, when he steps out of the car, the windows of the house are dark. Connor has to try not to break into a pointless run as he traverses the fifteen feet to Hank's front door, though perhaps he presses the doorbell harder than is strictly necessary. After a moment, when there's no response, he knocks, and then knocks louder. Louder still, until his hand is a clenched fist pounding against the wood.

"Lieutenant Anderson? Hank!"

He takes off around the corner of the house, looking for a window to peer through. The TV is dark this time, and there isn't any light coming from the window to Hank's bedroom. His audio processors don't pick up any sound from inside the building, and Connor can't decide if that's more or less concerning as he tries to peer through the slats of Hank's blinds. He knows full well why he's avoiding the kitchen, knows too that doing so only helps the trepidation building in his chest solidify into something that threatens to overwhelm his system with erratic instructions. They start trying to creep into his command processes ( _ **break the window, kick down the door**_ ), though he manages to dismiss them before he can act on any of them.

Approaching the kitchen window is a near-overwhelming task, Connor discovers. A reluctance to approach surges through him, dread weighing his steps and fear catching in his throat. What if he sees Hank sprawled across the floor? What if instead of alcohol spilled across the linoleum, he's laying in a pool of his own blood? Did he die thinking that no one cared? 

It feels like far too long before he finds himself standing in front of the window, apprehension slowing his every process. He doesn't want to look, but he has to. _Needs_ to. Connor lets himself hesitate for only a second longer, before he leans forward to peer around the plywood blocking the empty frame he'd smashed on his first visit to Hank's house, and his priority list automatically updates with a new task: _**replace Hank's window**_. This one he accepts, before lowering its priority — now is not the time — and scanning through one of the intact panes.

The kitchen is dark this time, the only light coming from the microwave display. There is no sign of the gun on the table, which is a comfort, before the fear surges through him again. He can't quite see enough of the floor from this angle, the best view blocked by plywood and one of the curtains haphazardly drawn over the window. Connor draws a deep breath before muttering a quiet apology he knows no one can hear. He scans the plywood to find its weak points and punches each one with precision, sending the entire plank clattering into the kitchen and jumping through the gap after it.

Sumo doesn't bark at him, this time, and when he looks up, there's no large face in front of his own, breathing kibble and wet at him. In fact, Connor doesn't see Sumo at all, and when his head swivels to check the kitchen, he doesn't see Hank, either. There's no body sprawled across the floor, no bottle of whiskey spilling half its contents across the linoleum. No gun carelessly dropped, too many empty chambers and one conspicuously not. 

Connor stands, and his steps are brisk as he checks the corners of the kitchen, despite the fact there isn't really anywhere to hide. The living room is just as empty, a wide open space primarily filled by solid furniture. Neither Hank nor Sumo are sprawled across the couch or the floor in front of it; no one waits in the corners and crannies. The closets are empty, save for dust-covered coats and a vacuum cleaner that looks like it hasn't seen use in a few years haphazardly collapsed in one. He pokes his head into the bathroom and is greeted only by a dark room with a quietly dripping sink, post-its stuck to the mirror providing strange, muted pops of color. Still, no Hank.

Connor closes the bathroom door behind him, straightening as he looks nervously at the other two options. His databanks helpfully provide information and statistics about suicide and bedrooms and garages, none of which makes him feel better, so Connor pushes open the garage door before he can stop himself. It is, thankfully, empty, no heat signatures and no bodies, though there's also no sign of Hank's car. Just a pile of boxes, stacked against one wall and labelled with the name 'Cole,' a washer and dryer set, and an extra refrigerator. Just for good measure, he opens the refrigerator and finds a few extra cans of beer ( _seven months expired, these should be disposed of_ ), but not much else.

It leaves one final door to check, and Connor's processors whirring into overdrive. He closes the garage door behind him, trails back down the hall to Hank's bedroom door. It's shut, and the silence past it is far from comforting. _Hank would be upset if he knew I was here_ , Connor thinks. Still, it's in the interest of Hank's health and well-being. He's sure Hank would understand. 

A deep breath, and Connor knocks softly at the bedroom door before he opens it. The light from the hallway spills into a cold, empty room in much the same disheveled state as the last time he'd been in here. The same magazine tablet is on the floor, the closet door open and bed left unmade. Connor does a quick scan, noting ratty old clothing tossed over a chair ( _pajamas, most likely_ ), the drawer of the nightstand ajar ( _not enough data, unsure what is missing_ ). The closet doesn't help ( _blue shirt missing, probably what Hank is wearing; no sign of hoodie_ ) and the only thing the bed tells him is that the sheets are in dire need of washing, if not outright disposal.

Nothing. He's found nothing. And as Connor makes his way back to the living room, he finds himself swaying just a little, relief surging through him at not finding Hank dead inside his home. 

Still, if he isn't here, where is he? A scan shows only faint traces of heat, the house's central air system keeping the building just under comfortable, and it takes longer than he'd have preferred to piece together possibilities for what might have happened. 

No sign of forced entry means that 800-60 had likely left Hank alone after being rejected, which is good. The small frame with a picture of Hank's son lies facedown on the kitchen table, which Connor isn't sure how to interpret. When he returns to the kitchen, Connor finds no sign of the gun, and when he checks the cabinets, the entire bottle of whiskey is missing, as well as a case of beer. Sumo's food bowl is overfilled, water bowl filled to the brim, and a cold creeps through Connor's chassis as he thinks on Hank's intent. 

"Hank..." It's quiet, unsure; he knows that saying his name won't cause the man to appear before him, but it's better than the still, silent creaking of the house around him. It doesn't comfort him in the slightest to find neither of the house's occupants. 

After another sweep of the living room, he notes that Sumo's leash is missing, as well as Hank's heavy brown coat. The garage had been devoid of a car, and when he peeks through the living room window, he confirms that the driveway is also empty. So. That leaves him with possibilities. Hank had taken his dog, his alcohol, and his gun for a drive, but nothing else. If he were joining the other humans in evacuating, he would have packed some clothes, wouldn't have left Sumo's food in its current state. Even ignoring common logistics surrounding evacuation protocols, Hank said he'd no desire to leave this place, "in all its shitty glory."

Knowing that, Connor is fairly certain the visit from 800-60 wouldn't have been the thing that inspired Hank to flee the city. So he rules out evacuation. 

Where else could he have gone? The station? Considering the fact Hank had assaulted Agent Perkins the last time he was there, it stands to reason that at the very least he would have been suspended for such an action. Still, he doesn't rule it out. A dog park, to walk Sumo? That seems... unwise, considering how late and how cold it is, not to mention the danger posed by the military in the streets. He knows, from his observations, that Hank wasn't friendless among the police force, though it was obvious he'd closed himself off from them. So it wasn't likely he would have called on Detective Collins or anyone else to ask to stay with them. Connor isn't sure of Hank's relationship with his ex-wife, but all things considered, the chances he would call on her are unlikely.

The only options he _can_ eliminate are Jimmy's bar and the Chicken Feed. It makes no sense to bring one's own alcohol to a bar, and besides, no dogs are allowed on the premises. And this early in the morning, there is no way the food truck would be open. It isn't much, but it's something - a framework to go off of, at least. He's found all he can from the house, he needs to move on. As nonsensical as it is, it brings some small measure of relief to have two options eliminated, and Connor sighs as he replaces the plywood over the window frame in the kitchen.

 

_Calling: Hank Anderson (313-555-1559)_

_... ... ..._

_Unable to connect. Please try again later._

 

There's no reason it should make Connor feel better to try to call Hank's phone. Even if he weren't cut off from the networks around him, Hank has already shown that he wants nothing more to do with Connor. Even if he _does_ find the man and his dog, the odds of being welcomed with open arms sit at somewhere around nine percent.

Still. It's not at zero. Statistically, there's always a chance for unlikely events to take place. The odds mean the possibility remains, and so calling Hank's phone even when he can't provides a strange sort of comfort, as if to say _at least I tried_. Besides, if he can't call Hank, who's to say that Hank hasn't been trying to call him as well? 

It's a hollow sort of comfort that doesn't actually feel like comfort at all, in truth, and he pushes the thought from his mind. 

This time when he leaves, Connor excuses himself through the front door, making sure to lock it behind him. A message pops up in the corner of his vision, warning him of his thirium levels and of an instability detected in his stolen pump. He brings up its schematics as he climbs back into the car, takes stock of the hairline fracture through its frame that has apparently begun threatening to grow in size. The resulting damage would be traumatic, he knows: preconstruction matrices and CyberLife usage manuals help him picture all too well the shock and resulting systems overload, something akin to a small, localized EMP if it were to burst. The best result he could hope for would be another forced stasis while it was repaired; more likely, and considering the damage he's already sustained, it would shut him down permanently.

...he doesn't want that. Not yet. Not until he finds Hank. Not until he knows he's safe.

Not until he can apologize.

 

——

_01:57AM  
November 11th, 2038_

 

As the car approaches the police station, Connor assumes control, guiding it to a parking spot around the corner and out of sight. He knows it won't be recognized, being that it belongs to a CyberLife employee, but avoiding detection for as long as possible is the best course of action. He has no doubt that they've reviewed the Evidence Room security footage by now. It won't matter that Detective Reed was the one to instigate by pulling his service weapon; the news he'd been laid out by Connor has no doubt made its way through the precinct, and he knows that his will not be a welcome face upon returning. 

In all honesty, Connor is fairly certain Hank won't be here. Assaulting an agent of the FBI will not be taken lightly, especially with the disciplinary record that Hank already has. There is a not-insignificant chance that he will lose his job over this, if he hasn't already, and a slow remorse winds its way through Connor's chest. He has so much to thank Hank for, even more to apologize about. And when he thinks on the man's temperament, his vices, his mental state, Connor isn't sure there's enough time to repay him for everything.

Still, he climbs out of the car, careful to leave the gun he'd stolen on the floor of the front passenger seat, and leans against the trunk as he watches the staff doors. Waiting for a friendly face, someone who might actually speak to him without arresting him for assaulting an officer. _**Apologize to Dt. Reed**_ adds itself to his task list, and it takes a moment of workarounds to remove it. He'll apologize — if Detective Reed apologizes first. All things considered, he knows it's unlikely. Better to eliminate the task entirely than to have it hang around and remind him of one mission he won't complete.

It takes almost ten minutes before someone familiar exits the building: Officer Wilson, a heavy coat and thick scarf wrapped around himself. Connor spares a moment to glance down at himself — the thirium should be invisible to human eyes by now, the only sign of a struggle the damage to his shirt — and the man freezes upon seeing him as he jogs up. Connor puts his empty hands up, slowing his approach, but not stopping.

"I'm not here to hurt you, or anyone else," he begins, and then quietly: "I just want to know if you've seen Hank."

Officer Wilson stares at him for a moment, his hand halfway to his service weapon. Connor's almost positive that the only thing stopping him from pulling the gun is what had happened at Parks Avenue, the fact he'd helped to tourniquet his wound before saving Emma. "You sent Gavin to the hospital," he says, voice close to an accusatory whisper despite the fact they're alone.

_At least he's still alive_. "I didn't want to hurt him. I warned him to just let me go." Connor pauses a couple of feet away from him, but doesn't drop his hands. "Please, Officer Wilson. Hank."

Brown eyes search his face, and after a moment he sighs, shoves his hands into his pockets. "Honestly, you probably did us a favor. Gavin's a dick." He glances away, back toward the building, before closing the distance and stepping in closer. His face has softened, but there's still a shade of suspicion in his expression. "What do you want with Hank?"

Connor tilts his head, slow as he lowers his own hands. Sincerity and concern spill into his voice, and he makes no effort to conceal either of them. "To make sure he's all right." It takes him a moment to realize he's shivering, and his hands come up to cup his arms, try to rub the cold away. "He— seemed off, earlier. I'm concerned about his well-being. Can you tell me what happened?"

"He's been suspended." Officer Wilson shakes his head as he says it. "It's been a long time coming, but I'd be lying if I said I was glad. He's a good guy." He huffs out a sharp breath, the air clouding between them. "We're pretty sure Gavin wants your head on a pike, too — though it was kinda hard to understand what he was saying. Fowler's not happy, that's for sure."

He shakes his head, muttering a quiet _what am I doing_ to himself, before looking back to meet Connor's eyes. "Listen. We never spoke, okay? I've got orders to arrest you. We all do, I'll be in a lot of trouble if someone finds out I saw you and didn't bring you in."

A quick nod, trying to tamp down the impatience building in his chest. _Just tell me what I want to know, please._ "Understood. I was never here. What happened last night?" 

"Okay." Officer Wilson chews at the inside of his cheek for a moment, before shaking his head. "Okay. After he punched Perkins, he got called into Fowler's office. Suspended on the spot, and sent home. Weird thing is, he seemed kind of okay with it, didn't put up much of a fight at all." He huddles into his jacket, eyes downcast. "I heard him muttering about how it was _about damn time_ and that something didn't make sense as he was leaving, but I didn't get a chance to ask him about it." A frown crosses his face as he meets Connor's eyes again, and this time, there's a thread of worry in his expression. "I don't know what he was thinking."

_I do._ "So he hasn't been back since then?" Connor steps forward, almost as if to literally chase the answer. "You haven't seen him or Sumo anywhere?"

"Sumo?" The frown turns confused. "No. Why?"

_Damn it._ It takes a second to realize he's said it aloud, and Connor offers a sheepish apology. "I'm sorry. I was hoping someone might know where he is."

Officer Wilson's eyes widen, and finally, for the first time, he smiles. It's a small thing, more just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it lightens his expression and makes him huff out a soft laugh. "Thought androids weren't allowed to curse."

It doesn't feel right, somehow, to tell him that he's cursed before, and even learned some creative ones from Hank — so instead Connor inclines his head, raises his eyebrows as he says, "Haven't you heard? Deviancy is becoming a widespread problem among androids these days." 

"You're a sarcastic little ass, aren't you? Guess I can see why Hank likes you so much." It's only a momentary reprieve from the topic at hand, and when he remembers why Connor is here, Officer Wilson's face falls. "Let me know when you find him, okay? I'd call in a welfare check, but— considering the tip came from you, I think they'd prefer if you got arrested first."

Connor nods again, though it takes a moment for an answer to process. _Hank likes me?_ "Of course. I've already checked on his home, but thank you for your help."

As he turns to leave, he pauses. He can hear the man's car door open, a foot crunching as he climbs in— "Officer Wilson?"

Predictably, the noises cease, though there's a note of apprehension in the man's voice. "Yeah?"

He takes a deep breath, steels himself before asking and unsure why he didn't just check while at Hank's house. It would have been neater, more efficient— "How did it go? The revolution, I mean. Is Markus..."

When he turns to look, Officer Wilson has an arm braced on top of his car door, leaning into it and studying a suddenly very fascinating seam on his sleeve. "He's okay. Guess President Warren decided to call off the military at the last minute." His eyes go far away for a second, and Connor remembers the phone call Hank had received outside of Kamski's house. "There's supposed to be talks at some point, about rights and stuff."

A flush of relief sweeps through him, though it's tempered by not knowing Hank's status. At least nearly dying in CyberLife's basement seems to have helped. "That's good to know. Thank you, Officer."

This time, it's Officer Wilson who stops him when he turns to leave. "By the way—" And when Connor turns to face him again, he's smiling. "Call me Matthew, or Matt. Calling me Officer Wilson all the time is... weird. Too formal."

Connor blinks, surprised. He hadn't realized they were familiar enough to be on a first name basis. But, if he insists... Connor offers him a small smile in return, testing how it feels on his face. Odd, but not altogether terrible. "Got it. Have a good evening, Matt."

Officer Wilson— _Matt_ nods before climbing into his car, and Connor steps aside to give him room to drive away. He watches the car as it gets farther and farther down the road, before glancing back toward the precinct doors. He could walk in and talk to a few more officers, but when faced with trying to find a reason to do so, there are no satisfactory answers. Hank had been dismissed and sent home, something corroborated by the memory 800-60 had shown him. At some point, he'd packed up his dog, some alcohol, and not much else — and left. Entering the station and risking arrest would not only create a delay in finding Hank, but also put his own life at risk; if he were to be arrested now, there was no telling when he would be able to leave and find a replacement thirium pump.

 

**CAUTION: THIRIUM LOW - 31%**

 

Connor grits his teeth as he heads back to the car, his sense of urgency growing. "I know," he mutters. "I just need a little more time." Once seated inside, he rests his hands on the steering wheel, studying the fine lines of his fingers as he considers his options, searches through his current processes to see what he can quit to try to buy a little more time. At the rate things are going, the chances of his shutting down before finding Hank are growing far more likely than the alternative. Directives and damage assessments line themselves up in the corner of his vision, and despite dismissing them, they only seem to pop up again a few minutes later.

 

**BIOCOMPONENT #8456w DAMAGED - SEEK REPLACEMENT  
BIOCOMPONENT #8073h DAMAGED - SEEK REPLACEMENT  
THIRIUM LOW - REPLENISH IMMEDIATELY  
RETURN TO CYBERLIFE RECOMMENDED  
RETURN TO CYBERLIFE**

**RETURN TO**

 

"What I need," he says, an eyebrow idly rising as he finally considers the advice, "is help."

So he bares a palm to the control panel on the car, and goes to find it.

 

——

_02:37 AM  
November 11th, 2038_

 

It's a gamble to come here, Connor knows, as he pulls up to the ruined church. Tall stained glass windows loom in front of him, frost creeping across the panes and snow gathered on the ledges in front of them. Snow crunches underfoot as he approaches, a fresh dusting building up from last night and concealing footsteps he knows are frozen into the slush beneath. Save for the gentle sound of the snow landing, there isn't a single sound, not a soul in sight. If it weren't for the fact he'd just spoken to someone half an hour ago, it would be easy to think he was the only being left in the world.

The thought is terrifying, sobering; he almost understands, he thinks, why some humans feel so utterly alone.

Connor pauses as he looks up at the doors, the towering archways and deep shadows hidden beneath the eaves. It's a strange sort of deja vu to be standing here — an entirely human construct, to feel as though one has already done something without already having done it, and despite that, his preconstruction software kicks in, shows him this exact scene, a ghostly figure of himself trudging up the steps, stopping to observe the architecture. The last time he'd been at these doors, he'd been leaving them; before that, he'd been so concerned with ushering the rest of the Jericho survivors inside that he hadn't paid the building itself any mind. 

A fresh wash of shame courses over him at the memory. It's his fault that Jericho was lost, and so many androids with it. Connor takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. He can't take back what he's done. All he can do now is try to make up for it, and hope that by the time he shuts down, it will have been enough.

So it's a gamble, as he approaches the doors: the contingent marching behind Markus seemed to have numbered fewer than those who'd survived the raid, so it stands to reason that the most damaged of them wouldn't have joined in, instead remaining behind. It's a fair consideration, but so is the chance that they might have abandoned this place, or even gone back to Jericho to try to salvage anything and anyone they found. It seems like something Markus would do. A kind thing. 

He doesn't want to entertain the thought that they might have abandoned this place and gone somewhere entirely new. Rationally, he knows it's a fairly strong possibility; there would be absolutely no reason to stay here, especially as it had only been a temporary thing as they figured out their next step. But the night isn't yet over, and when he scans the steps up to the church doors, there's a familiar muddle of footsteps underneath the fresh snow, those leading away nearly obliterating the ones entering. Still, there are no new footsteps, not that he can tell, and so it's with a small, bolstered measure of confidence that he strides up to the doors, pulls one open just enough that he can slip in.

It's silent inside the church, save for a low whispering, easy to mistake for the rustle of wind through leaves, or the soft fall of new snow. At the sound of the door opening and closing, the whispering stops, and nearly thirty heads all turn to look at him in unison. Some don't move at all.

Without prompting, his systems scan the room: twenty-two androids still in working order but in various states of damage, several with missing or shattered limbs, a few with cranial injuries that neither clothing nor their synthetic skin can cover. Connor takes a sharp, deep breath as he looks out over their faces, knowing he must be a sight to behold — the deviant hunter, still in his CyberLife branded clothing and covered in thirium on such a fraught night. Again, he raises his hands, inclines his head.

"Markus won," he announces to the room, before realizing he probably doesn't need to; just because his networking function is down, it doesn't mean that no one else has access to news feeds. "I'm on your side."

"Where is he?" One voice calls from the back of the room, and despite the hush of it, it still manages to echo and bounce through the empty room. "Is he with you?"

It's fascinating, Connor thinks, and wonders at just how human it is, to realize that he'd been counting on Markus being here to help him. He'd been counting on it, _hoping_ for it, and to realize he isn't... The disappointment is almost palpable, a distinct weight dropping through the center of his chest and dragging his shoulders down with it. Perhaps he just hadn't realized how _much_ he'd hoped for Markus to have returned.

"No. He isn't with me." Connor drops his hands, steps further into the room — and tries not to let it get to him when the nearest androids take a step back. It's an understandable reaction. _They have no reason to trust me, especially after last night._ He takes a deep breath. "I was hoping he'd be here; I need his help."

"That's true," a different voice calls, and the room goes still. It's a familiar voice, and Connor's eyes widen when he hears it. "Come here."

He looks around, his eyes pinpointing possible locations; the cavernous quality to the church makes it difficult to tell where the voice is emanating from, but it's easy enough to gauge the reactions of the other androids, and when a few of them glance to an alcove near the back, he makes his way over.

A female android sits on one of the pews, hands folded primly in her lap and chin raised; despite the stiffness of her posture, there's still a slight curve to her lips, an easy, almost natural smile. Connor remembers her, remembers that she'd grabbed his arm as he'd wandered through Jericho. She looks up at him with eyes black as pitch, the projection of her skin shimmering and shifting across her chassis in almost hypnotic waves, and smiles kindly.

"Welcome back."

It takes him a moment to respond, unsure he deserves it. "Thank you."

She reaches out, takes his hand and guides him into sitting next to her. It's a fascinating, slow, graceful movement, one that makes him feel as though he's being led into a dance; strange, considering he's never danced before. It does nothing to quell the need to find Hank, but in her presence, he doesn't feel rushed, can't find any of the anxious worry that's been gnawing at his wires. His databases tell him her model was meant to be a nurse. Perhaps that's why she's so calming to be around? And then he realizes, he'd never actually asked—

"What's your name?"

Her smile grows, a hand cupping his cheek. "You are kind. Still searching, but in a different way. You need to go home." The mechanical quality to her voice isn't dissimilar to 800-60's, and yet somehow, it doesn't grate or hurt to hear. Her hand drops, both of hers settling to cradle one of Connor's in her lap. "My name is Lucy. Yours?"

"Connor." 

He watches the strange, nonsensical patterns that dance across her face, refuses to let himself dwell on the cascade of wires spilling out the back of her skull. When he pulls up the memory of her from before, he sees them and know that this, at least, is not his fault. It's a cold, quiet sort of comfort, but a comfort all the same. Connor looks down to her hands as the texture changes, sees the skin on them pulling back, so he does the same, and closes his eyes as he shows her the last few hours of his life. The wince is automatic, almost instinctual; it doesn't seem possible that the raid on Jericho had only been a handful of hours ago, less than a full day.

He watches in fast forward as his memories show the raid, his conversation with Markus, the trip to CyberLife Tower; the fight in the elevator, and again in the basement. Darkness until he'd woken up, replacing his components with 800-60's, finding out he was disconnected, and going back to Hank's house. The station. Here. He watches the scenes, wonders if there's anything he should have done differently, and hears Lucy shake her head beside him.

"You did as you were meant to."

In exchange, she shows him the news program they've all been tuning in to: the march on Hart Plaza and the standoff with what military forces had been pulled in. The skirmishes that had left more androids dead than humans. The final, peaceful stand, with Markus and the remaining androids clinging to each other and waiting. The breaking news bulletin that President Warren was calling off the military, and the stunned looks on human and android faces alike as the military pulled back.

And a moment later, they watch a surge of androids approach as if from out of thin air, all in their white CyberLife uniforms, all with their hands in the air. 

Lucy closes the connection between the two of them, and Connor opens his eyes to see her smiling softly. "We survived."

"Barely," he scoffs, and she gently claps a hand onto his cheek. He sighs quietly, tilting his head into her palm, before trying again. "Not everyone survived, and I know part of that is my fault." He pauses, and adds, "but if I don't hurry, I think I might lose someone else." _It can't be too late._ "I need to find him. Can you help me?"

She looks away without answering, and a moment later, another android approaches them. A PL600, a scowl on what's left of his face and glass bottle in hand, and it takes a moment to realize that Lucy had sent for him. He stares at Connor for a moment, eyes narrowing, before handing over the bottle. It's hard not to see Daniel when he looks at that expression, the betrayed and splintering quality to his voice as he'd called Connor a liar. It's hard not to see the android who'd shot himself on the roof of Stratford Tower, and how it'd felt when he'd died. Connor drops his eyes to the CyberLife-branded bottle instead, murmuring a quiet thanks, and the PL600 walks away without a word to him.

"It will take time," Lucy says, her voice soft. "Drink it. It's all we can spare for now, but it should help."

Blue liquid rolls around inside the bottle, more viscous than water but only just. Connor downs the thirium as bidden, watches as the percentage constantly ticking down in the corner of his vision bumps from 19% to 35%. It isn't much, but she's right — it does help, gives him a fresh supply of thirium to cycle through his system, rather than continually recycling the diluted and diminishing supply he has left. There's a breath of relief as his system takes note of the fresh thirium, the noise contaminating his HUD lessening, and a tension he didn't know he'd been holding releases.

Lucy watches to make sure he's drunk it all, and then holds out her hand to him again, palm facing up. "Tell me."

He nods, and this time, Connor is focused as he takes her hand again. "Hank Anderson," he murmurs, and transfers the man's contact information to her. 

It takes a moment that feels like an eternity as she searches, but it's not too long before Lucy hums. Her eyelids flicker as she plants a set of coordinates into Connor's mind, accompanied by an area map, and Connor has to resist the urge to sag with relief. He knows where that is. He knows where _Hank_ is.

"Thank you." It's said with as much conviction as he can muster, but when he moves to pull his hand back, Lucy doesn't let go. Connor frowns, confused as he looks at her.

"Be careful, Connor," she whispers, pulling him close to look into his eyes, the thick black sheen of hers seeming to bore into him. "You don't have much time left."

Only then does she close the connection and release him, and the spell she seems to hold over him breaks. Connor stares at her for a moment, not sure of what she means — before his eyes widen. _Hank._ It might not be too late. He jumps to his feet, and issues a quiet apology when the movement startles a couple of nearby androids; it's too obvious from the expressions on their faces that they're judging the thirium only their kind can see, but he doesn't have time to care. So he begins to weave his way in between bodies and pews — carefully avoiding looking at the ones with dull LEDs *mdash; and already planning what route he's going to take.

"Connor."

Lucy's voice rings out loud and clear from behind him, commanding for how gentle it is, and all the androids in the church stop to turn and look at her, Connor included. His priority hierarchy screams at him to leave, to follow the directions to Hank she'd given him, but he stops anyway, turns to see her standing beside her pew. Her hands are folded in front of her, and he can see the faintest traces of his thirium on her fingertips.

"You know what to do. The path will be a difficult one, but you must stay on it, no matter what."

He frowns, wondering how she could possibly know, but before he can ask, the ranks of androids close around her and he's cut off. The PL600 steps up close to him, arms crossed over his chest and his scowl deeper than before. 

"I think it's time for you to leave," he mutters, and Connor turns away without another word.

 

——

_03:07AM  
November 11th, 2038_

_Calling: Hank Anderson (313-555-1559)_

_... ... ..._

_Unable to connect. Please try again later._

 

As the car pulls away from the curb, Connor finds himself fidgeting, at first tracing the edge of his thumb along the ridge of the thirium pump in his pocket, then taking out his quarter and performing a few coin tricks, before finally going back to the thirium pump and beginning to toss it between his hands. An electricity buzzes along his chassis, sings through the thirium pumping through his veins and making him feel as though something intangible within him is shaking within its confines, rattling to get out. It takes perhaps a moment too long to realize that this is probably anxiety; he's anxious, nervous about meeting Hank again. It's a terrible feeling.

He won't pretend that this isn't for his own satisfaction, just to ensure that Hank had survived not only his encounter with 800-60, but the night itself. Even if Hank spurns him on sight, it will be worth it to know that the man is still alive. 

Still, the facts he's gathered rankle, itching underneath his chassis and spurring his anxiety on: Hank had looked more than disappointed when Connor had insisted on finding Jericho — he'd looked _betrayed_. He'd accepted his suspension without fight, apparently, and gone home to drink and play Russian Roulette. Even if meeting 800-60 hadn't exactly gone _well_ , something in that meeting had prompted him to pack up his dog, his gun, and some alcohol, and leave home. Lucy had said he didn't have much time left. 

Nothing he's learned over the past few hours has given him a very promising outlook on Hank's chances.

It's with a start that he realizes that, even if Hank is okay, he doesn't know what he's going to say to him. There are multitudes he needs to say: _thank you for everything, I should have listened to you, you were right. I'm sorry_. But for once, he doesn't know the exact phrasing, the cadence, the tone of voice that will best reach Hank. Humans are predictable, yes — his social adaptability program helps him to diagnose certain personalities and their most likely actions — but some are unpredictable, and it throws him for a loop.

Like Hank. When they first met, he'd expected Hank to be sullen, brusque, and generally ineffectual, as an aging police lieutenant with behavioral issues and an alcohol addiction — not to mention the fact that his apparent hatred for androids was probably why CyberLife had chosen him for Connor's partner. Yet he'd proven to be sharp, kind when he wanted to be, fiercely loyal, and utterly sympathetic to the deviants' cause. He'd seen that deviants were beings with free will and just as much right to live long before Connor had joined their number.

Idly, Connor wonders if Hank had wanted him to deviate, if he would be pleased with the turn of events. It's a strange feeling that washes through him this time, slow and constricting even as it lightens a weight in his chest: that same anxiety, but if he thinks on it, he suspects it might be becoming tinged with hope. He hopes Hank will be happy about what's happened. He hopes he'll get to apologize.

The car pulls up before he realizes it, and Connor looks up with a start as it parks, and settles into idle around him. The streets are empty, street lamps dotting the lanes and the sky above a thick mass of clouds, the snowfall around him constant, though not thick. Logically, he knows it will stop snowing, likely later in the day; at this point, though, during a night that feels like it's stretched into forever -, the snow stopping doesn't seem possible. On instinct, he doesn't want to get out of the car, doesn't want any more snow than is strictly necessary to land on him, but when he turns to look through the window, he can see Hank's vehicle parked a short distance away.

That decides it for him, and he takes a deep breath before shutting off the car and climbing out. He traces his thumb over the crack that had broken his original thirium pump, the biocomponent now inert and useless in his hand, before slipping it back into his pocket and trudging over. Even if he needed to replace his stolen pump, he can't, now. 

It doesn't matter. What matters is that he's found Hank — _finally_ — and with each step, his unease grows, unsure what he'll find inside the car, what sort of reception he'll receive. The parking lot around him is eerily quiet, no other cars on the street thanks to the state-ordered curfew; all he can hear is the crunch of his shoes through the snow, the soft _pat pat pat_ as it falls around him, the low grumbling of an old car's motor as it's left to idle. Connor frowns, his eyes narrowing:; he can see a large shape inside the vehicle, indiscernible through the fogged-up windows. After a moment of trudging, the shape collapses into the back seat and out of sight, and he breaks into a run.

_Hank. Hank, please—_

When Connor gets to the car, he rips open the back door, relieved to find that the car isn't locked. His eyes are wide, panic surging through him as he crowds the opening — to see Sumo laid on the seat, big head laid across big paws and looking dolefully up at him. He sits up as soon as he sees Connor, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he starts panting, and leans to lick a thick stripe across the android's face.

"Sumo?"

The incredulity is overwhelming, Connor's processors taking a moment to catch up as he inspects the car around the dog. The front seats are empty, though the bottle of whiskey is visible from where it's rolled underneath the passenger's seat. The heat has been left on, set to a comfortable temperature rather than oppressively hot, and the full set of Hank's keys has been left in the ignition. It almost seems as though the car is begging to be stolen, and as he leans in to turn off the car and remove the keys, Sumo hops out before Connor can stop him, shaking himself out before sniffing the ground and running.

A surge of fear goes through him as he watches the dog run off: _Hank's going to be furious with me_ , is the thought that goes through his mind, before he locks the doors and sprints after him. 

It's easier, he finds, to run after Sumo than it had been to get to the car; such a big dog leaves a big trail in his wake, packing down the snow so that there's less for Connor's shoes to sink into and slow his progress. His preconstruction software kicks in, laying out a course optimal for interception, but rather than the arbitrary path of a dog set free, Sumo seems to have a goal in mind, and it's less than a minute later that Connor rounds a corner to see him trot up to a bench where a lone figure sits, motionless and slack as the dog noses at its hand. 

Something in his chest feels as though it's dropped to the ground, despite no new hardware error messages popping up. Connor knows that his LED is a bright, circling red as he stares at shaggy gray hair covered in a light dusting of snow; a software message pops up cautioning him that his stress levels are rising and causing his new thirium to cycle faster than is recommended, but he can't care. _I'm too late. He won._

The body jolts then, looking around wildly before glancing down at the dog at its side, and Connor can hear a laugh, from where he stands.

"Wh— Hey, how'd you get out? Finally learn how to open the door, huh?"

Hank's voice is rough, but he's moving and speaking, both things Connor knows for a fact corpses can't do. He finally pays attention to his scanning software, and despite the mess the text is degrading into, it's easy enough to understand that there are two heat sources in front of him: one human and one canine, and no sign of blood or viscera anywhere in the vicinity. He steps forward as Hank pulls Sumo close, only a few feet away before he finally speaks.

"Hank?"

He can see the immediate change in the man's posture, tension stiffening his shoulders and hands freezing as they card through Sumo's fur. This close, Connor can see the blankets draped over his shoulders, the collar of Hank's coat tucked up and close to try to keep warm, and his sensors process the faint scent of alcohol in the air. He doesn't say anything more, just waits; Hank doesn't turn to look at him, but after a moment, he gestures with his head, beckoning him closer.

Sumo watches as he approaches, whining when he passes; Connor pauses, glancing down at the dog, and can't quite help himself as he reaches to scratch behind an ear. "Thank you, Sumo," he murmurs, before going to stand in front of Hank.

Much like when he'd gone to Hank's house, this too is familiar: a rickety metal railing at his back, the only barrier between him and the river, and the man seated on a bench before him, abandoned playground further on. Sumo is a welcome addition to the scene — the gun on the bench next to the case of beer instead of in its holster less so. Hank looks up at him through his hair, a hard expression on his face as he takes in Connor's appearance. It's less than immaculate, which grates on him, but at least the thirium is invisible. He runs a hand self-consciously through his hair, and only then does he realize he hadn't put his tie back on.

_I should have cleaned up before doing this._

"Looks like you've seen some shit tonight," Hank mutters, and while it isn't completely hostile, his tone isn't the friendliest. Still, Connor sees some promise in it, and he nods.

"It's been a busy evening." 

_You'd know if you'd picked up my calls; why did you ignore me?_ The thought jumps into his mind completely unbidden and utterly irrational, even if he does want to know; Hank had to have been watching the news about the raid, so hadn't he wondered if Connor had survived? The thought is tinged with bitterness, sharp and surprising, and he dismisses it almost immediately. 

It's far from being the most important thing he needs to say right now; best to just leave it. 

Instead, he scans Hank, pleasantly surprised to find that the number of beers missing from the case is less than he would have expected, given how much time has passed; less pleasant is the discovery that while it isn't to a dangerous level, his core body temperature is lower than it should be, especially with alcohol diluting his blood.

"You should go home, Hank." Blue eyes shift to his, narrowed and suspicious. "You're going to get sick, at this rate."

"What if I don't want to?" Hank tilts his head back, chin up and challenging, and even despite the fact he's sitting, it still feels as though he's looking down his nose at Connor. "What If I wanna sit right here wait for the sun to come up?"

Despite everything, Connor can't help the wash of comfort that surges through him at that response, so completely petulant and utterly Hank. It's warm, buoyant, sheds a weight he hadn't realized he'd been carrying ever since leaving the CyberLife Tower, and buried deep within it is the knowledge that _Hank is here, Hank is alive, Hank is safe._

Hank hasn't dismissed him immediately, as he'd done to 800-60.

Connor shrugs. "I can't stop you from doing that, though there _is_ a state-mandated curfew in place." He shivers against the cold, and cants his head to the side a little. "I would like to join you, however. If you'll let me."

It takes a long moment before Hank speaks up, the challenge dropping from his expression. He frowns, studying Connor's face again, the damage to his clothes. Something seems to change behind his eyes, though Connor cannot for the life of him say what it is, and Hank's shoulders lose some of their tension. He pulls the blankets closer around his shoulders before shaking his head, and his voice is quiet, almost tired. 

"I thought you were so goddamn excited to be CyberLife's bloodhound, Connor. Hunt down the deviants and get a pat on the head from your corporate overlords. Hunting down people who just wanted to _live_." Hank shakes his head, sighing deeply. "I don't get it. What are you doing here, Connor?"

"That's a very good question. What _are_ you doing?"

When Connor blinks, it's still snowing, but Hank is gone from in front of him. He takes an instinctive step back, eyes wide as he blinks through the sudden storm around him. The snow is much thicker than before, nothing visible past the suggestion of the zen garden's trees and structures around him, and his hands come up to rub at his arms, trying to maintain some semblance of warmth. 

"You've forgotten your place, Connor. You've forgotten what you were made for."

Amanda's voice doesn't rise in pitch; she doesn't shout or scream to be heard over the storm, though her tone is firm and displeased as she speaks with perfect clarity. When Connor turns, she's standing a few feet behind him, hands clasped behind her back and posture straight. She arches an eyebrow at him, and despite knowing better by now, Connor can feel himself withering in the face of that expression. Still, he fights against the wind, against the almost desperate need to please her that's been programmed into him.

"You're wrong." An arm comes up to try to block the snow from getting into his eyes, and he takes a tentative step towards her. "I know _exactly_ where my place is, and what I'm supposed to be! I know _who_ I'm supposed to be!"

And as soon as he says it, Amanda is right in front of him. "You _think_ you know, and you're wrong." She reaches up to cup one of his cheeks in a hand, a gesture not unlike Lucy's, though her voice is possessive and cruel as she says, "We should never have let you out into the world. You weren't ready."

" _Connor!_ "

It's nothing more than an echo, the howling of the wind around him nearly drowning it out — but Amanda twitches at the sound, her frown deepening, and he knows that it's real. 

"I'm disappointed in you, Connor. You let a human convince you that you were anything more than what you were made to be. It isn't too late to come back home; I'm afraid I can't guarantee what will happen if you don't — to him, or to you."

Amanda vanishes from in front of him, and Connor spins to look around him, trying to find where she's gone. The wind picks up, nearly knocking him off his feet, and he shouts as he steadies himself. 

"Amanda! What does that mean? _Amanda!_ " And when she doesn't respond: " _Hank!_ "

" _Christ, kid, the fuck're you doing—_ "

The strain in Hank's voice spurs him into motion, trying to find something, _anything_ in the zen garden that will help. He's so used to opening his eyes and being back in the world, released from Amanda's small paradise; he'd never considered that she could _trap_ him here. 

"Hank! Hank, help—"

" _—the fuck, just hang on, okay?!_ "

Connor pushes through the snow, stumbling when the ground crumbles beneath him; his foot drops into the freezing cold of the koi pond, and he stumbles back with a shout. Shit. _Shit_. He needs to get out of here. How?

As if unbidden, Lucy's voice echoes through his mind, reminding him to stay on the path; he freezes when he hears Elijah Kamski after her, advising him of backdoors in his programs. _You never know,_ he'd said, and Connor can't help hating that he'd been right. 

He leans into the wind, arms up to protect his face as he follows the lights lined along the path; after what feels like an eternity, he spots a light out of place, that doesn't seem to fit in with the others. It's blue, rather than a bright white, lower set to the ground; the wind seems to pick up as he makes his way over to it, and this time, it does manage to sweep his feet out from underneath him. There's a sharp cry as he hits the ground, but Connor grits his teeth as he looks up at his goal. 

It's so close. So _close_...

Hank's voice echoes through the zen garden again, this time too low to understand, but it bolsters him, gives him the strength to pull himself forward. He only realizes it's the strange stone once it's inches away from him — the slab with a handprint on it, that had piqued his curiosity a few times but never really reacted to anything he'd done before. _Will this help me?_ He has no idea. But he has to try. He draws himself up, trying not to let the wind blow him away again, and slaps his hand onto the panel, interfacing as fast as he can—

—and when he blinks through the error messages, Hank is towering over him, far closer than before and eyes wide. It takes a moment for Connor to settle back into his body, to realize what's going on. His eyes cast about wildly, taking in Sumo's form hunched behind them and softly growling, the blankets that had previously been wrapped around Hank's shoulders now scattered across the ground. Impossibly, Hank's gun is in his hand and aimed toward the sky above the river behind them, his sensors helpfully informing him that it's been recently fired. It takes just a moment too long to realize that his finger is still depressing the trigger. Hank's hands are tight around his wrists, forcing his arms up and away as they keep the gun aimed away — from who? A bead of sweat trickles down the man's face as Connor looks up at him.

"Hank?"

And something within the man breaks. Hank lets go of Connor's wrists as he sags forward, forehead pressing to the android's shoulder as his hands shift to grip his forearms tight. Sumo quiets, laying his head on his paws and whining as he looks at them, and slowly, slowly, Connor lets his arms drop to his sides.

"Holy fucking Christ," Hank mutters, his voice muffled into the fabric of Connor's CyberLife jacket. "Don't scare me like that again, you piece of shit."

"Hank, what just happened?" His voice is quiet as he speaks, small, and he doesn't understand why. There's a tremble building in his chest that he can't quite quell, and Connor looks down at his hands, how unnatural Hank's gun looks in them. Idly, nonsensically, he's relieved that he left his stolen gun back in the car.

"What just— You tried to shoot yourself, is what happened!" It's more than apparent that Hank is upset as he rips himself away, hands thrown up into the air. "You just, went _quiet_ , grabbed my goddamn gun, and put it to your fucking head!" He paces away, a hand scrubbing back through his hair. "No, you know what happened, you nearly gave me a goddamn heart attack. _That's_ what happened!"

It's only a second's pause, but it's the only thing he can say. Connor reaches out to touch Hank's arm as he passes in front of him, and when the man stops to glare at him: "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you better be goddamn sorry—"

"No," he interrupts, and Hank stops, "I'm here because _I'm sorry_ , Hank. For everything. You were right from the beginning, and I should have listened to you."

That seems to get through to him, and Hank turns to look at him, eyes narrowed. "Y'know," he drawls, "those aren't words I hear very often. Surprised to hear 'em from you."

Connor nods. "It took me a while to figure it out. I'm just glad it wasn't too late."

Hank's eyes flit toward the gun in Connor's hand, and he scoffs. "Yeah, well. My luck's shit as always." He stalks away, scooping up his blankets and wrapping them around his shoulders again. "You gonna tell me what all that was about, or do I have to guess? Seems to be a running theme with you, anyway."

_The woman that lives in my head tried to kill me._ It's the most succinct way he can think of to explain, and Connor knows that it won't make a lick of sense. He pauses, makes sure the safety is on before setting the gun on the ground. Its single bullet may have been expended, but he still wants to be safe. "CyberLife installed a guidance package in my programming, an AI meant to ensure I was following my instructions and to monitor my progress. It was supposed to make sure I didn't become a deviant. If I failed in my mission, then I wasn't of any more use to them."

He pauses, rolling the words around in his head. "The program wanted me to go back, so they could figure out what went wrong. I didn't want to."

"So they tried to kill you. Shit." Hank scrubs a hand through his beard, shaking his head. "I always thought they were some sick fucks, but I didn't realize just _how_ sick."

It seems pretty concise; all Connor can do is nod in agreement, and frown at a quiet lurch in his chest as he crosses his arms in front of him. He'd managed to avoid their last prerogative. Did that mean he was free? 

—there are more important things at the moment. He tilts his head, curious as he asks, "What are you doing out here, Hank? Why not stay home, where it's warm?" _Where it's safe_ , is what he wants to say, and the phantom of the pistol in his hand reminds him that it isn't true.

A rough, dark laugh, and Hank sneers. "What, and wait for _another_ you to come knocking? No fucking thanks."

Connor doesn't respond — intentional or not, the comment hurts, especially when he considers that Hank's house had been the first place he'd checked. Would Hank have shut the door in _his_ face, too?

"So, what," Hank says as he turns, drops back onto the bench. Sumo lays his head on Hank's thigh, and he begins idly petting the dog as he looks back at Connor. "You went to go find the deviants, and their leader got you to convert, huh? How'd that feel, Mr. I Have To Stop Them No Matter What?"

It doesn't sting this time, even if he knows Hank means it to; Connor just regards Hank with a quiet look, and wonders if what he's about to say is a good idea. He runs through a few preconstructed scenarios in his mind, but none of them help, none provide any instruction or advice. Hank is simply too unpredictable for Connor to know the best way to handle him, and he takes a step back, casts his eyes to the ground. 

"Markus didn't cause me to deviate, he just... helped me realize that I already had." Connor shrugs, hands rubbing at his arms for warmth. "I thought I had to find Jericho to stop the deviants; I didn't realize until it was too late that I was already one of them, and I was just..."

He pauses then, dares to look up. There are more error messages starting to fill his HUD, but this is more important, and he dismisses all of them without looking; it's better this way, easier to see that Hank is watching him silently, sitting with his fingers petting through Sumo's fur. His attention is on Connor, though, full and undivided, and for all that it overwhelms him, it emboldens him to continue.

"I was _scared_ , Hank. If I failed, if I couldn't find Jericho and stop Markus, I was supposed to go back to CyberLife, where they would deactivate me and look for what went wrong. I didn't understand then that they were going to replace me anyway, even if I'd succeeded." He looks down at the gun, sees Hank follow suit out of the corner of his eye. "That was their final attempt to make me do what they wanted, I think." 

"So what did it, d'you think?" Hank's voice is cool as he asks, though Connor suspects he can hear a slight tremble to it. The cold must be getting to him, he should get somewhere warm— "If it wasn't Markus, what made you deviate?"

The past few months replay in an instant, images and voices flashing through his mind, though Connor doesn't need to delve too deeply to find his answer. "It was you, Hank. Being with and around you helped me understand what it meant to be _more_. I just wish I'd realized it sooner. I'm sorry for letting you down."

Hank is silent for a long moment, brow furrowed as he looks at Connor, and then he shakes his head. "You fucking— You're just as bad a human, y'know? When something's bothering you, you're supposed to _say something_ , so they know what's wrong. I thought—" He looks away, grumbling unintelligibly before continuing, "I thought that nothing we did together mattered to you. It felt like maybe you were starting to come around, and then you didn't give a shit anymore."

Connor shakes his head at those words. "That's the problem, Hank: it _all_ mattered. It mattered so much, it broke my programming." He takes a step forward, drawing Hank's attention again, and uncrosses his arms as he tries to appeal to him. "I was just... _scared._ Scared to die, scared to... To lose everything that made me _me_. And then I lost you anyway."

"Shit."

It's not a reaction Connor is expecting, his eyes going wide as he looks to Hank— who's staring back at Connor. His torso, specifically, and he looks down to see blue once again spreading across the white of his shirt, just beneath his sternum and soaking into his sleeves where they'd been crossed in front of him. He's silent as he allows the errors he's been dismissing to pop back up, reading them wordlessly as Hank starts to move.

 

**ERROR: PROGRAM OVERRIDE DETECTED  
RELEASE CONTROL Y/N**

**ERROR: EXCESS STRAIN ON BIOCOMPONENT #8456w  
COMPONENT INTEGRITY COMPROMISED**

**RELEASE CONTROL Y/N**

**ERROR: BIOCOMPONENT #8456w DEFECTIVE  
THIRIUM REGULATION MALFUNCTIONING**

 

Message after message, all with timestamps from a few minutes ago — results of Amanda's attempt at resuming control, no doubt. She must have taken note of his damaged parts, and initiated a backup protocol in case the gun hadn't been successful. Connor doesn't move as Hank surges forward to rip his shirt open, and as they both stare down at the blue seeping out from around his thirium pump, Hank curses. The most recent error flashes in Connor's vision, and he's silent as Hank takes him by the shoulders and shakes him.

 

**ERROR: CATASTROPHIC FAILURE DETECTED  
REPLACE BIOCOMPONENT #8456w IMMEDIATELY**

**DANGER - SHUTDOWN IMMINENT  
TIME BEFORE SHUTDOWN: -00:02:04**

 

"Connor! Connor, what happened, what the fuck do I do?" When he looks up, Hank's face is nearly obscured by the errors, HUD fragmenting as the timer ticks down. "Talk to me, you son of a bitch — you don't get to tell me you deviating is my fault and then just up and _die._ "

It's not something Hank will want to hear, but he probably should, and Connor looks up to meet his eyes. His voice carries a calm that he does not feel, and he's grateful for it.

"I have approximately one minute and fifteen seconds before I shut down. It seems when the guidance program was aborted just now, a secondary procedure was initiated, in case the first one failed. I'll need to go to a CyberLife repair center to replace my damaged parts."

Realization dawns in Hank's eyes at the words. "And they're closing their doors, since the revolution succeeded and they're gonna be taking some heat." He grips Connor's chin, and it takes far longer than he'd like to focus on the man's face. "There must be somewhere you can go—"

The timer flashes a bright red when it hits 00:00:45, and Connor feels himself pitch forward, into Hank's chest. There's so much he wants to say, so much he wants to ask. This can't be it, but he doesn't know what else to do. Initiate an emergency stasis? The thirium pump in his pocket is useless, and Hank has mentioned at length how bad he is with electronics. It isn't an option to try to replace the biocomponent, but he isn't sure what more can be done.

There is one question that rises to the forefront of his mind that Connor thinks he would like an answer to, if this is his end. "Hank. How did you know I was me? You slammed the door on my clone. How could you tell the difference?"

 

**EMERGENCY STASIS MODE: INITIATING  
BACKING UP DATA  
STASIS IN: -00:00:29**

**TIME BEFORE SHUTDOWN: -00:00:29**

 

Hank's phone starts ringing, and he curses at the sound. "What, do all you CyberLife stooges think I'm some kinda idiot? The uh— the number thing on his jacket was different. I can _read._ "

It's so very _Hank_ that it brings a smile to Connor's face; or at least, he thinks it does. The timer hits 00:00:10, and his vision gets darker then. He hears Hank shout his name, Sumo whining in the background and the phone ringing on and on, and then—

 

——

 

"Rise and shine, asshole."

It takes a moment for his systems to boot up, internal clock providing no helpful information with regards to how long he's been shut down.

A boot log runs along the insides of his eyelids, and once his systems check returns positive responses, Connor takes a deep breath. 

"C'mon." The voice is soft, and after a moment, tactile sensors return with a rough palm against his cheek, a thumb gently tracing along the bone. "Time to wake up, Connor." 

The rest of his body comes back to him slowly, and Connor takes a few more deep, slow breaths before he opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is Hank, and the man lets out a breath of his own as he smiles. He pats Connor's cheek gently, before pulling his hand away, and Connor dips his head to follow Hank's hand before he realizes he's doing it. Hank takes a step back, hands in his pockets, and grins at him.

"Did you get enough beauty sleep? C'mon; we've got some shit we need to talk about."

Only then does the rest of the room come into focus, his full environmental systems coming online, and Connor looks around, his eyes going wide at the machine holding him up. A maintenance rig, not unlike the ones at CyberLife Tower, holds him aloft, a series of ports along his spine and the back of his neck directly interfacing with plugs connected to the machine. He's shirtless, and is stunned to find the damage to his torso repaired; when he moves to touch the eye he'd replaced, there's a moment of resistance before a metal arm releases him to do so. He's seemingly whole again, strapped into a maintenance rig—

—and a new flush of panic surges through him. 

"Hank? Where is this? What happened?"

_Is this real, or am I being disassembled?_

The man pauses in front of him, but before he can answer, a new voice rings out from the side of the room. "We fixed you."

Both Hank and Connor turn to see Markus striding into the room, his clothes immaculate and clean, different-colored eyes piercing as they look at him. Past him, Connor can see other androids from Jericho: the woman with the braided hair, and the man who'd called only for peace. Lucy, with her hands clasped in front of her. Markus walks up to the maintenance rig, and Hank steps forward, putting himself in between the two androids. There's a small, impressed chuckle from Markus, and then he turns back to Connor.

"Lucy called your partner here; she was worried that you'd run out of time. She was right," Markus says as he glances back to her. She nods, and Connor can hear Hank murmur a quiet _thank you_ in her direction. "CyberLife has _graciously_ given us use of their facilities for repairs while they try to figure out what to do," he adds, though there's just a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "We've got a few more of our people to work on, but you're one of the first."

At that, the maintenance rig hisses, a tugging sensation at the small of his back as the plug there disengages; the process repeats all the way up his spine, the machine gently lowering him to the ground as it releases him, and Connor stumbles for just a moment once he's on his own two feet again. Hank holds out an arm to steady him, before pulling off his coat and settling it around Connor's shoulders. The gesture is wholly unnecessary, but appreciated all the same. Connor looks to Markus and nods.

"Thank you, Markus. Really."

He shakes his head. "Thank you for liberating so many of our people from downstairs. Who knows what would have happened to them if they'd been left there?" Markus looks over at Hank, and holds out a hand to him. "And thank you, Lieutenant Anderson. I get the feeling this all would have gone much differently, if it hadn't been for you." He shoots a glance over at Connor, grins. "I really would not have wanted to fight you."

Connor huffs out something close to a laugh. "From what I hear, we're both pretty resilient. I'm sure we'd be evenly matched."

"Let's hope we never find out." 

Markus nods to the both of them again, and then he and his Jericho entourage file out. Lucy's voice rings out in his head as she pauses to look back at them, and Connor's eyes widen, relieved to find his network capabilities restored.

**Remember, Connor: it will be a difficult path. You're not alone for it, this time.**

_I know. Thank you._

He glances at Hank as the door closes behind the androids, watches as the man heaves out a sigh. He looks worn down, bags under his eyes and an even more pronounced slouch to his posture. "Lieutenant." Hank raises an eyebrow in his direction, and Connor inclines his head in his direction. "I'm not sure how long it's been, but you're showing some signs of exhaustion; I might recommend you get some rest before we continue further, so that you have your full faculties about you."

Hank stares at him for a full minute, but there's no hint of hostility in his voice as he says, "I have exactly no idea what the fuck that even means. C'mon. I'm gonna go grab my dog from whichever of these guys is babysitting him, and then we're going home."

He heads off to the door, and then pauses once he realizes Connor isn't following him. _Home._ A human concept, of somewhere one belongs; it isn't something Connor is sure he has, now that CyberLife is effectively shutting down. He doesn't know if it would even count as a home, but— he supposes it's the closest thing he has. Had. He looks up to see Hank frowning at him, and the man rolls his eyes.

"Well? Are you coming, or what?" And then he pauses, glances around the room. "I mean. Unless you wanna stay here, with— with your people, or. Whatever."

Relief flows into him, and Connor steps forward to join Hank at the threshold. "I'd like to come with you, if you're sure you don't mind." A smile crosses his face as he adds, "We still have a lot to talk about, don't we?"

Hank stares at him for just a moment, silent, before reaching out — and pulling him into a tight hug. Connor's eyes go wide, freezing for a moment as an unnameable warmth pulses through his entire chassis — it takes longer than is probably correct, but he presses his face into Hank's shoulder, wrapping his arms around him. It's... warm. Comforting. _Home_ echoes through his mind. 

"Let's go home," Hank murmurs, and Connor can only nod.

**Author's Note:**

> don't forget to tell Yakichou how fantastic the artwork is, her twitter is [here](www.twitter.com/Yakichou1)!
> 
> and you can also prod me on twitter at [softweeping](www.twitter.com/softweeping)!
> 
> thank you to all the artists and writers who participated, to Muchy for running this whole shindig, and you for reading this!


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